The Perfect Poison

by Amanda Quick

  Caleb looked at Lucinda.

  “It was a disaster,” Lucinda snapped, suddenly quite cross. “Surely it will not have escaped your attention, Patricia, that not only am I not happily married, my fiancé died of poison and everyone thinks I’m responsible.”

  “Yes, well, I do understand that matters did not work out precisely as planned,” Patricia said soothingly. “But that does not mean that the underlying method was at fault.”

  Caleb appeared fascinated now. “Describe this method to me, Miss Patricia.”

  “It was really quite straightforward,” Patricia said, warming to her topic. “Lucy made a list of attributes that she required in a husband. She gave the list to her father, who then assessed the gentlemen of his acquaintance and their sons to see which among them came closest to meeting her requirements.”

  “The candidate Papa and I selected was Ian Glasson,” Lucinda said coldly. “He proved somewhat less than satisfactory.”

  “I understand.” Patricia was undaunted. “But I believe that the problem was that you left one thing off your list.”

  “What was that?”

  “Psychical compatibility,” Patricia declared with an air of modest triumph. “It was the missing ingredient.”

  “And just how was I supposed to assess that requirement?” Lucinda demanded.

  “That’s the thing, you see,” Patricia said. “You couldn’t. You were, in effect, working blind in that department. But Mama told me that there is now a matchmaker in the Society who can assess that very quality.”

  Caleb nodded. “Lady Milden.”

  Lucinda and Patricia both turned to him.

  “You know her?” Patricia asked excitedly.

  “Certainly. She’s the great-aunt of my cousin Thaddeus Ware.” Caleb frowned. “Which makes her a relation of mine, I think, although I’m not quite sure how.”

  “Would you be so kind as to arrange an introduction?” Patricia asked.

  Caleb ate some of the kippered salmon. “I’ll send her a note today informing her that you wish to employ her services.”

  Patricia glowed with excitement. “That is very kind of you, sir.”

  Lucinda stirred uneasily. “Patricia, I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

  “Sounds perfectly sound to me,” Caleb said. He looked at Patricia. “What are the requirements on this list of yours?”

  “Actually, I merely adopted Lucinda’s list,” Patricia explained. “And then added the psychical compatibility factor.”

  “What was on Miss Bromley’s original list?” Caleb asked.

  “Well, among other things, the candidates must first and foremost hold modern views concerning the equality of women,” Patricia said.

  Caleb nodded, evidently in full accord with that requirement.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “Suitable candidates will also demonstrate intellectual interests that are compatible with my own,” Patricia continued. “After all, we will be spending a great deal of time in each other’s company. I expect my husband to be able to discuss not only archaeology but the paranormal aspects of the subject.”

  “Makes sense,” Caleb agreed.

  “He will need to be in good health, of course, both physically and psychically.”

  “A legitimate requirement when one is talking about producing offspring,” Lucinda put in quickly when she noticed that Caleb was frowning a little.

  “He must also be broad-minded about my talent,” Patricia said. “Not every man is prepared to tolerate a wife who possesses strong psychical abilities, I’m sorry to say.”

  “Probably best to seek a mate within the Society, in that case,” Caleb said.

  “That is my thought, as well,” Patricia agreed. “And last but not least, the candidate must possess a positive and cheerful disposition.”

  “Well, of course,” Lucinda said. “That goes without saying.”

  Caleb stopped looking intrigued. His expression hardened. “I understand the concern with the other requirements, but why the devil is a positive, cheerful disposition important?”

  “Really, sir,” Lucinda said briskly, “I would have thought it obvious. An agreeable temperament is an essential quality in a husband. The mere thought of putting up with a man who is inclined to melancholia and dark moods is enough to make any intelligent woman elect to remain a spinster for life.”

  Caleb’s jaw tensed. “A man has a right to the occasional dark mood.”

  “Indeed,” Lucinda said. “But the operative word is occasional. No woman should be forced to tolerate such behavior on a regular basis.”

  “Best to avoid the problem at the start by selecting the right husband,” Patricia said. “A cheerful, positive temperament is definitely a critical requirement.”

  “Huh.” Caleb went back to his eggs with a disgruntled air.

  It struck Lucinda that he appeared to have plunged into a decidedly dark mood. She looked at Patricia. “The added requirement of psychical compatibility is an excellent notion. And I agree that employing a professional matchmaker is very wise. The great hurdle you face, I’m afraid, is me.”

  Patricia stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  Lucinda sighed. “You and your parents have spent a goodly part of the last year and a half in Italy and Egypt. You do not comprehend how things have changed for me since my father and his partner and my fiancé died. The gossip about the poisonings, you know.”

  “What of it?” Patricia demanded. “Never say your friends and neighbors actually believed that nonsense.”

  “I’m afraid most did believe it,” Lucinda said simply. “What is more, I think it is safe to say that, as long as you are closely associated with me, Lady Milden will decline to take you on as a client. The challenge of trying to overcome the notoriety that surrounds this household would be too much for any matchmaker.”

  Caleb looked up from his scrambled eggs. “You don’t know Lady Milden.”

  ELEVEN

  “I MUST SAY, LUCY, I QUITE LIKE MR. JONES.” PATRICIA paused in front of a stand of foxglove. “But he is decidedly out of the ordinary, isn’t he?”

  “That is putting it mildly,” Lucinda said. They were in the wing of the conservatory devoted to traditional medicinal herbs and plants. Her mother had called it the Physick Garden. “But I suspect that is part and parcel of his unusual psychical nature.”

  “Very likely.” Patricia leaned down to examine some feverfew.

  “He is, I think, quite powerful,” Lucinda said. She paused by the aloe that she used to treat minor burns and wounds. “Such strength requires a great deal of self-mastery. And self-mastery of that degree can produce some quirks and a dash of eccentricity.”

  Caleb had left an hour ago, taking his tisanes with him. Patricia had disappeared upstairs for a time to supervise the unpacking of her trunk. When she had come back down, she had insisted on a stroll through the conservatory.

  “One can certainly understand a touch of eccentricity.” Patricia wandered over to look at the pale pink flowers of the tall valerian plants. “Papa says that very strong talents who do not control their paranormal senses are in danger of being overwhelmed by them.”

  “It is a popular theory in the Society and I think there is, indeed, some risk of that occurring.” Lucinda fingered the large, broadly oval leaves of a Solomon’s seal. “In my work, I have sometimes encountered individuals who were mentally unstable due to illness of a psychical nature. It has not escaped my notice that such people are usually rather strong talents.”

  Patricia cleared her throat delicately. “One hears certain rumors concerning the Jones family. Evidently there is more than a dash of eccentricity in the blood. They are descended from the founder, after all.”

  “Yes, I know, Patricia. But if you are implying that Caleb Jones might be a bit unhinged, you are wrong.” She did not know why she felt obliged to defend Caleb but she could not seem to help herself. “He is a complex man who controls an unusual and very strong t
alent. That accounts for any odd behavior you may have noted.”

  “Does it explain the bruises on his face that I saw this morning?” Patricia asked smoothly.

  “Mr. Jones suffered an accident of some sort last night. One of the tisanes I gave him is designed to alleviate the bruising.” She would not mention the reason she had given him the other medicinal tonic, she thought. Something told her that Caleb Jones would not appreciate having the odd tension in his aura discussed by all and sundry.

  “I see.” Patricia moved on to survey the yellow flowers of the Saint-John’s-wort. “One would have thought that he would have been married by now. Don’t you find it strange that he is still single?” She looked up with an expression of polite inquiry. “He is still single, isn’t he?”

  “Oh, yes.” Lucinda frowned, considering the issue more closely. “As to why, I have no notion.”

  “Whatever his eccentricities, he is a Jones,” Patricia pointed out, straightening. “The heir to a fortune and a bloodline that goes all the way back to Sylvester the Alchemist. Most men of his years and background would have wed long ago.”

  “Mr. Jones is not that old,” Lucinda said sharply. But she knew that Patricia was right. Caleb could not put off marriage much longer. A gentleman of his station had a certain responsibility to his family.

  Now why was that such a depressing thought? she wondered.

  “He must be nearly forty,” Patricia said.

  “Nonsense. Mid-thirties, I should think.”

  “Late thirties.”

  “Are you saying that he is too old for marriage? Rubbish. It is obvious that Mr. Jones is in his prime.”

  “I suppose that depends on your point of view,” Patricia said very seriously.

  “You are nineteen, Patricia. Wait until you are my age. A gentleman in his thirties will appear entirely different to you.”

  “I never meant to imply that you were old.” Patricia whirled around, red-faced. “Please forgive me, Lucy. You know I did not intend any such thing.”

  “Of course you didn’t.” Lucinda laughed. “Do not concern yourself. You did no grave injury to my feelings.” She paused and raised her brows. “Can I assume from this conversation that Mr. Jones is too advanced in years to be added to your list of candidates?”

  Patricia wrinkled her nose. “Definitely.”

  “I’m sure you’re aware that in the polite world young ladies of your age are frequently married off to men old enough to be their fathers and sometimes old enough to be their grandfathers.”

  Patricia shuddered. “Luckily for me, Mama and Papa hold modern views. They would never try to coerce me into marrying a man I did not love.” She clasped her hands behind her back and studied a clump of shrublike wormwood. “How long have you known Mr. Jones?”

  It occurred to Lucinda that, what with one thing and another, there had been no opportunity to explain Caleb’s presence in her life. She pondered whether to break the news that she was in danger of becoming a suspect in a murder case.

  It would probably be best to keep quiet about her predicament, at least for the time being, she thought. The truth would only alarm Patricia and distract her from the project of finding a husband.

  “Mr. Jones and I met quite recently,” she said.

  “A few weeks ago, perhaps? You never mentioned him in any of your recent letters.”

  “This is the second day of our association. Why do you ask?”

  “What?” Patricia spun around, genuinely shocked. “You’ve only known him two days and he takes breakfast with you?”

  “Well, he didn’t get any sleep last night and he didn’t eat this morning. I suppose I felt sorry for him.”

  Patricia’s eyes widened a little more. Then she burst into a spate of giggles. “Really, cousin, you astonish me.”

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “Kept him occupied all night, did you?” Patricia winked. “You are more modern in your thinking than even I had believed. Does Mama know? I suspect not.”

  “You misunderstand,” Lucinda said, baffled by the reaction. “I wasn’t the one who kept Mr. Jones busy last night. He was involved with another project until dawn.”

  Patricia stopped giggling. “Mr. Jones is involved with someone else? How could you possibly bring yourself to share him?”

  “Well, he is a professional,” Lucinda pointed out. “I’m sure he has a number of affairs going on at the moment. I am in no position to demand his services full-time.”

  “His services?” Patricia’s voice rose. “You pay him?”

  Lucinda frowned. “Well, of course.”

  “Isn’t that a little, umm, unusual?”

  “In what way?”

  Patricia widened her hands. “Well, I suppose I have always assumed that if there was a financial consideration involved in that sort of liaison, it was the man who paid the woman, not the other way around. But now that I consider the matter closely, I can see where, given modern notions of equality—”

  “Liaison?” Horrified, Lucinda considered fainting for the second time that day. “Mr. Jones and I are not involved in anything of the sort. Good heavens, Patricia, whatever gave you that idea?”

  “Let me think,” Patricia said dryly. “There is the little matter of your returning home with him in a carriage very early in the morning. I had every reason to assume that the two of you spent the night in a secluded location.”

  “You are quite mistaken.”

  “And then you invited him in for breakfast. What else was I to think?”

  Lucinda drew herself up and gave her a frosty glare. “Your assumptions could not be more wrong. Mr. Jones tracked me down in Guppy Lane this morning because of a business matter. We conferred in the carriage on the way back here, and when I discovered that he had not slept or eaten I felt compelled to offer him a meal. That is all there is to it.”

  “Why?” Patricia said.

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you feel compelled to feed him? He’s a Jones. He probably has a kitchen full of servants just waiting to prepare meals for him.”

  The logic of the question bothered Lucinda more than it should have. Why had she invited Caleb in for breakfast?

  “He obviously does not look after himself,” she said. “It is in my own best interests to keep him fit and healthy.”

  “Why?” Patricia asked again.

  Lucinda threw up her hands. So much for trying to keep her association with Caleb unexplained. “Because he is the only person standing between me and prison, possibly the only one between me and a hangman’s noose.”

  TWELVE

  THE DOOR TO THE LABORATORY OPENED JUST AS BASIL Hulsey was about to put the latest version of the formula into the water dish. Jolted by the interruption, his hand jerked, spilling several drops of the drug onto the floor. The six rats watched him through the bars of the cage, malevolent eyes glittering in the glow of the gas lamp.

  “What in blazes?” Hulsey yelped, furious.

  He whirled around, intending to chastise the hapless person who had dared to enter his domain uninvited. He was forced to swallow his anger when he saw who had stormed into the room.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Norcross,” he muttered. He adjusted his spectacles on his nose. “Thought it was one of the street boys the apothecary uses to deliver the herbs.”

  His new financial backers were just as arrogant and just as obsessed with the founder’s formula as his previous patrons. They were all the same, he thought, men of wealth and rank whose only interest in the drug lay in the power they believed it would give them. They had no appreciation for the wonders and mysteries of the chemistry involved; no comprehension of the difficulties that had to be overcome.

  Unfortunately, rich gentlemen who were willing to finance scientific experiments of the sort that interested him were hard to come by. Two months ago, following the collapse of the Third Circle, he had found himself between patrons. All of his equipment and several valuable notebooks had been d
estroyed or confiscated by the Society. The last thing he had wanted to do was become involved with the Order of the Emerald Tablet again. But its members seemed to be the only people around who were willing to pay for his unique talent.

  “We have just learned that Caleb Jones was seen calling on Lucinda Bromley this morning,” Allister Norcross said.

  Unnerving energy shivered through the space between them. Hulsey was instantly thrown into a state of anxiety. Allister Norcross had probably never been what anyone would call normal. Now, his talent heightened by the drug, he was quite terrifying.

  In looks, he was unremarkable. He possessed the sort of features that appealed to the ladies but he was not so pretty that men found him effeminate. His brown hair was cut in a fashionable style and his elegantly tailored coat and trousers emphasized his lithe, athletic frame. It was not until one got close to him that one realized he was unhinged.

  Heart pounding, Hulsey took an instinctive step back. He came up hard against the cage. It shuddered under the impact. He heard the scurrying of little clawed feet behind him and quickly moved away.

  Yanking off his spectacles, he fished a stained handkerchief out of his pocket. He often found that polishing his glasses calmed his nerves.

  Norcross scowled at the cage and then looked away. He did not like the rats. Probably because they did not frighten easily, Hulsey thought. Or perhaps it was because he sensed that he might have more than a little in common with them when it came to savage impulses.

  Hulsey positioned the glasses back on his nose and attempted to compose himself.

  “I don’t understand, sir,” he said. He had a nasty suspicion that he was missing something of great importance here. He did not like the feeling. “Is there a problem?”

  “You fool. Caleb Jones has become involved in this affair and it is your fault.”

  Alarm shot through Hulsey. So did outrage.

  “I have no notion what you are t-talking about,” he stuttered. “You cannot blame me if your Circle has come to Jones’s attention. I c-can assure you I had no hand in whatever has occurred.”